Borderlands: The Re-Sequel - Fragments
by Anarkyrie42
Summary: Scraps from during and before the Re-Sequel. Ongoing mission... Various chapter ratings. Irregular updates. Y'know, the usual drabbles crap.


Hey, kiddos. What's up? Just some little scraps I wrote to go along with the Re-Sequel.

I don't own anyone, pretty much, unless you don't recognize 'em, then I guess I do. Or you just don't recognize 'em. Whatever. I'll break down the chapter-by-chapter whatever-whatever as it comes. They'll vary in length, see, and characters, so... they is what they is.

This one's about Michael, AKA Noble Six, and how he became a fracked up bounty hunter on Pandora/Elpis.

Characters: Noble Six, Nisha, Scooter, Claptrap, Dr. Zed, Marcus  
>Warnings: Violence, strong language, sexual themes<br>Rating: T, (since there's no actual sex and the violence isn't superbly detailed. Should be M, but I hate rating things M. Not as many people read M).  
>Pairings: Nick (Nisha x Jack) and (technically) Nix (Nisha x Six) (I'm trying to make it look like they're best friends with benefits, not in love.). Mentions of Moxxi x Marcus (what would you call that? Marxxi?)<p>

Enjoy.

* * *

><p>SIX<p>

They say Pandora is a lawless, ruthless, destructive planet. It'll chew you up and spit you out. And that's true, mostly. Except for the lawless part. There is one law on Pandora: Respect her. If you don't respect the planet, she'll chew you up and spit you out. Needless to say, it's easier said than done. In order to respect her, you need to keep up with her. That demands hyper-fast reflexes, ridiculous endurance and a trigger finger faster than the wildlife. You can't ever let your guard down or relax a moment, otherwise she'll get the idea that you don't respect her. And she'll kill your ass deader than some poor civilian sucker trying to fist-fight a Brute Chieftain.

You might say guys like me were built to survive here.

Or maybe I'm just lucky.

(V)

PANDORA  
><em>The Arid Badlands<em>  
><em>25 Kilometers Southeast of Fyrestone<em>  
>2552<br>He braced himself against the seat, gritting his teeth and hissing one last breath of air before impact. He was catapulted against the restraints, his armor-locked arms keeping him from flying into the bulkhead, but shattering his left wrist and dislocating his right shoulder.

_Could've been worse_, he thought. The Spartan pulled the harness off and scrambled for an exit, the alarms going off around him. He got out and fifty meters away before the vessel exploded, the shockwave, heat and plasma throwing him forward and popping his shield. The boulder he'd hopped behind at the last second had saved him from death, but his armor was still searing hot and he was surprised he wasn't cooked alive in it. The Spartan hauled himself to his feet and kept running for . He staggered and collapsed onto one knee. The sound of a vehicle approaching caught his attention, but didn't make him move. The vehicle ground to a stop and someone disembarked.

"Are you okay, guy?" the voice was gruff and Hispanic. The Spartan lifted his head. "Were you in that crash, back there?"

The Spartan stood shakily, his body wanting to give up, but his will keeping him on his feet. _I will never quit..._

"Hey, buddy, c'mon. You want a ride or not?"

The Spartan looked in the direction the man was pointing. A post protruded from the ground, declaring that spot he stood on a 'bus stop'. The Spartan almost laughed. "Nearest UNSC Outpost?" the Spartan asked.

"We ain't had no UNSC presence here in thirty years," the man told him. He was in his forties or fifties, the Spartan couldn't tell, and had a hefty belly on him. He wore an orange shirt. "You an ODST or something?"

"Or something," the Spartan replied. "Closest city then."

"That'd be Haven. That's in the other direction. I could take you there if you had enough cash, after I gas up at Fyrestone," the man told him. "But you don't look like the kinda guy with money on him."

"No," the Spartan agreed.

"Listen, buddy, you can do a job for me, instead. Easy job. Then I'll take you to Haven. Sounds good?"

"Fine," the Spartan said.

"Hurry up, then," the man barked. The Spartan climbed onto the bus, wincing behind his cracked visor, as he sat in one of the blue plastic seats. He heard more engines approaching and the driver swear. "Goddamn Rugen."

The Spartan glanced at the driver, then tipped his head, trying to see through a gap in the wind shield. He caught sight of a vehicle gunning at them. Gunfire sounded and the bus sank to the left slightly. The driver swore again and reached for a shotgun. The Spartan was up. He grabbed the shotgun from the man, wincing as the movement jarred his now-relocated shoulder. Then he stepped off the bus and into the road. The car was still racing at them.

The Spartan hefted the shotgun, putting the buttstock to his shoulder and peering down the sights. He fired, catching the driver in the chest with exploding buckshot. It was enough to kill him, apparently, since he slumped forward and to the right, dragging the car off road. Men climbed out of the car, shooting at the Spartan. He strode calmly towards them. One of them turned and ran. The Spartan got up to the car, the bullets pinging off his armor, sounding like rain on a tin roof. When he was within fifteen meters, he fired twice, killing three of the men. The fourth, the runner, kept running. The Spartan bent and picked up one of the other rifles, casually putting it to his shoulder. He aimed and fired, bursting the runner's skull like a melon. The Spartan gathered the rifles, policed the bodies for ammo, and returned to the bus. The driver didn't seem terribly impressed.

"Not bad."

"Does this count for any bus fare?" the Spartan asked, offering the guns.

"It's a start," the driver shrugged. "Aren't you supposed to give them warnings or something, GI Joe?"

"Didn't seem like it'd do any good," the Spartan replied.

"Right, self defense," the driver nodded. "I still need you to do that job."

"Fine."

(v)

An orange box-shaped service bot greeted them as they disembarked at Fyrestone.

"Greetings, stranger! I am CL4P-TP! Or you may—"

"Shut up, Claptrap," the driver kicked the service bot. The bot groaned and turned to the Spartan.

"My sensors indicate you're less of a dick than that Marcus guy! Where're you from, friend?"

The Spartan ignored the robot, following the driver, whose name was apparently Marcus, to one of the dome-shaped buildings. Marcus slammed his fist on the door. "Hey, Scooter! Get up! I've got a project for you!" Marcus yelled. The door slid up and a skinny teenager strode out. Marcus turned to the Spartan. "This is my ex-wife's son, Scooter. Scooter, this is the new local badass."

"Golly, I'm sure he is!" Scooter whistled. "Check out that power armor, shit! That's bad-_aaaass! _Even though it's all burnt and shit."

"He needs medical attention," Marcus said. "Normally, I wouldn't give a shit, but he agreed to take care of that problem..."

"Oh, the Rugen Problem. Yeah, okay," Scooter said. "I'll see what I can do. How's it lock? Magnetic bindings with micro-clip attachments?"

"Yes," the Spartan replied. Scooter nodded and scurried back into the building.

"Ellie! Whatchu done with my magnet set?"

"He'll be at Zed's when you're ready!" Marcus called into the building. Scooter responded (following the clatter of something falling over) with a string of profanity. "He got the message," Marcus laughed. "C'mon, guy. By the way, you got a name?"

"No," the Spartan replied.

"What kinda fella doesn't have a name? Aint'chu Sergeant Someone-or-other? Or something like that?"

"Lieutenant Someone-or-other," the Spartan told him. The pain was getting to him, finally. He wasn't normally this chatty. The Spartan was no longer sure just how damaged he was. And he was (vaguely) concerned that once he took the armor off, his body would just give up without something to hold him up and keep him moving. Like a machine without a frame, which, by definition, was just scrap metal.

"Lieutenant, huh? Well, I guess that's better than 'this guy I picked up off the side of the road on my way here,'" Marcus seemed to be filling the dead air for his own sake. The Spartan was vaguely aware other non-Spartans sometimes felt a need for there to be something filling the air when it wasn't gunfire. Marcus led him to another building. A man in a blood-stained doctor's coat and mask met them at the door.

"I'm Dr. Zed," the man introduced himself. "Only I ain't a doctor anymore. Lost my medical license. But not because I can't help ya. What's your name, son?"

The Spartan hesitated. "Carter"

"Carter what?" Zed asked. "C'mon in and have a seat. Is Scooter gettin' somethin' to get this armor off 'im?"

"Yeah," Marcus replied.

"Jorge Carter," the Spartan said. He followed Zed to the exam table. The doctor kicked a lever and the table dropped.

"Have a seat, son. Can you take off your helmet?"

The Spartan sat and removed his helmet. Zed frowned.

"That's been bleeding quite a while, hasn't it?" Zed said. He cleaned the cut on the Spartan's head with some gauze and alcohol. "I ain't gonna ask how you got here, of course, I know better. But there ain't been a UNSC post on this planet in almost thirty years."

"Think I'll have to take him as far as T Bone Junction to be able to send a transmission to the nearest post?" Marcus asked.

"Might even have to take him as far as Tartarus Station," Zed said. Just then, Scooter came up with the equipment tucked under one arm.

"I can get your armor off, pal, just you hold still a minute," Scooter said. The Spartan held still as the pieces of metal fell off his frame, clattering on the floor and table. Once they were all off him, Marcus, Zed and Scooter moved the pieces off to the side. Zed changed out his gloves after they moved the pieces, and turned to the Spartan.

"You'll have to take that body suit off, son," Zed instructed. The Spartan stripped off his body suit and Zed set about examining him. "Is this just badly bruised or... Dislocated," Zed finished his sentence with a jerk and pop of Michael's shoulder. "Bruising across your torso and hips... even with your armor, son. Didn't you learn how to land a ship in soldier school?"

"Not a Covenant one," the Spartan said with a slight wince as Zed probed one of his more sensitive bruises. He had cuts and burns in some of his non-armor-plated areas, which were also sensitive, and starting to get infected. Zed cleaned the cuts and checked the internal damage.

"My, my... there's some internal bleeding and..." Zed moved the stethoscope. "Why didn't you tell me you only had one working lung, son? Nothin' seems to be ruptured, lucky for you, but I wouldn't put it past these ribs to be cracked, if not broken, and there to be torn muscle and ligaments in your knee and both shoulders. Left wrist is smashed and then there's that lung..." Zed pulled a needle out of a cabinet and popped off the cap. "This'll pinch a little..."

(v)

Marcus peered through the binoculars. He scanned the visible camp. It was littered with bodies. Some looked cut down while running, others thought it a better idea to stand, fight and die. Either way, they were all dead. The Spartan came out of the main fortress, carrying something in his left hand, pistol holstered and machete sheathed. Marcus couldn't tell what the Spartan was holding, though. Until the Spartan got closer.

"Six-Fingers Rugen is Dead-One-Handed Rugen," the Spartan said, tossing the hand into the dirt in front of Marcus. "How long is the drive to T Bone Junction?"

(v)

The Spartan bowed his head. He punched the console and sighed. He stood, turned and walked back out of the building. Marcus was still sitting, in his bus, at the bus stop.

"Couldn't get a signal?" Marcus asked. "You know, the Borderlands could benefit from a guy like you. Wait here a while. Do some bounties. Become a lawman or something like one."

The Spartan hesitated before getting on the bus.

"How many until you give me that beautiful Vladof rifle you have above your register in your shop?"

"Buddy, I got better guns for you than that. You can be sure of that."

(V)

2553  
>The vintage motorcycle purred to a stop. It was a trophy from one of his first jobs, one he'd enjoyed. The first one he'd enjoyed. Five paces from the bike brought him a little shy of eight meters from it. He swept his coat back, resting his right wrist on his Jakobs Unforgiven and started walking again. Rakk squawked in the distance, but nothing else living made a sound. Wind swirled the sand around his boots. He paused again, this time for longer.<p>

"Reid 'Rikky' Kobb, under the authority of Haven law, I'm placing you under arrest. Please step out into the open and drop your weapons. If you comply, it'll be relatively easy for you. If you refuse to comply, I will find you and that will not be easy for you," he announced loudly into the town. A man stepped out of the house directly opposite him.

"And what if I refuse to lay down my arms and comply? Whatchu gonna do, Lawman?"

"I'll have to arrest you forcefully," the Spartan replied. "What's it gonna be?"

"I think I'll kill you," Rikky Kobb said, raising his machine gun. The Spartan grinned and straightened his arm out. A soft pat hit the ground behind him. He began counting. the Spartan stepped back and kicked the grenade. It arced out, over the square and exploded as it hurtled down towards Rikky. The explosion didn't kill him, but it knocked him down and burned his face a little. The Spartan strode over, calmly, and drew his revolver.

"Know what? Bounty's the same, dead or alive," the Spartan said. He smirked as he aimed down at Rikky. "Dead's easier."

He'd killed all five of Kobb's men, and Kobb. With their right hands and Kobb's head in a bag, he headed back to his motorcycle, only to find a woman perched on it.

"Some fine fighting there, friend," she said. "Though, I'll be honest, it looked a lot easier than fighting from where I'm sitting."

"There's no challenge for me here," the Spartan told her, tossing the hands and head onto the back of his bike. "Nisha."

"So you know me...?"

"The bandit who kills bandits? Of course I know you. Considered picking up your bounty once or twice," he said, aware of the six-shooter she had, aimed at his abs. "Lemme ask what's stopping you from pressing on that trigger."

"Well, I've got a feeling that you'd kill me before you actually let your body give up," she said. "And you're too pretty to kill."

"I'll be honest... that's the first time someone's called me pretty," the Spartan said.

"Even though you know me, I can't claim to know you. You got a name?"

"Jorge Carter."

"Pretty... I dunno,_ mundane_ name for a handsome badass like you."

"I'm handsome now? I thought I was pretty," the Spartan said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Handsome seems to fit you better."

"Well, you're right there. I'd say of us two, you're the one pretty fits better. Fits very nicely, in fact."

"You need to work on your pick up lines," Nisha said.

"No, not really," the Spartan said. "I haven't even gotten started."

"Oh yeah?" she raised an eyebrow.

He smiled.

(v)

Nisha shifted against his side, arm around his chest. The Spartan relaxed into the bed, enjoying the warmth and feel of a human being against him. Nisha ran her fingertip up the augment scar on his chest. She traced the full shape of the Y-shaped autopsy-style scar.

"Where'd that come from?" Nisha asked. She was doing that thing the Spartan didn't like. Where people just filled air with words. The Spartan preferred the silence and the contact. Maybe it was because he came from such a physical world. But the talking to fill the air with words was less and less annoying. But it still annoyed him.

"I'm a Spartan," he told her. "It came from my augmentations."

"So you're not really this big?" Nisha smirked, running her hand down his abs, to his thigh. He smiled back.

"Oh, no. Everything _else_ got augmented," he said, much to her amusement. She laughed and put her hand back on his chest. He figured she wasn't the type for cuddling, normally, either. Nisha sat up suddenly. She straddled him and lowered her head, kissing him roughly. He let a soft growl escape as he kissed her back. She ended up on her back on the bed, him pinning her down with his hips. "My name is Michael, actually," he told her.

"Weird timing," Nisha said with another grin. "But now I know what to yell when you make me—mm!"

He kissed her again, not for lust, but because he just wanted silence.

(v)

2554  
>The Spartan moved low, crouched on the edge of the cliff, overlooking the gully the four Vault Hunters were moving into. Spartans were paranoid, by nature. But being in his line of work and now on Pandora, in a different yet so similar line of work, he'd found the paranoia was a good thing. Guys who got too comfortable got killed. Quick.<p>

So, out of paranoia and curiosity, he'd hacked their ECHOs as soon as they made boots-on-ground in Fyrestone. What he found intrigued him further. There was an encrypted signal they'd get on occasion, in unison, that really looked like an AI was sending it. With Hyperion equipment. Made him curious as to what Hyperion wanted with the Vault Hunters and how they'd gotten such a sophisticated AI. He could crack dumb AI with some time and a good TAC pad (which he had both of). But this one was extremely sophisticated. It was top of the line ONI-style good. It could make a paranoid man wonder...

He watched the Vault Hunters take care of a few Skags and continued in a high crawl along the cliff edge, keeping eyes on them. He could hear their gunshots and the clack of loading and cocking weapon, but had decided to keep it visual, not to use their ECHO's as microphones. He knew he'd risked that AI catching him just by tapping in (of course, he hadn't known about the AI at that point). He didn't want to get any more involved if the AI was, in fact, ONI in origin. Maybe they had a deal with Hyperion that he didn't want to know about. Either way, he knew it was smartest to keep as much a distance as he was willing to allow himself.

Brick was a large slab of meat, the Spartan noted. The man was over seven feet tall and could've been a Spartan... Except that he didn't appear to be old enough to be a II and looked too old to be even an Alpha Company III. And he was too bulky. Spartans were lean and mean, a kind of big-game-hunter slender, not bulging with muscle. And they were smarter. Much smarter. Also, Brick didn't appear to have a neural implant or any sign of having had one. So he was just a big, mean slab of meat as far as the Spartan was concerned. It'd be an interesting fight if it came down to it, but the Spartan was almost certain he'd win.

This Lilith girl appeared harmless... except for that disappear-reappear-glowing form thing she did. The Spartan had heard about women with those powers before, from Marcus. The powers themselves varied, along with the design in the strange pale blue tattoo-like birth-marks, but the Sirens were all the same, when it came down to it. She seemed to know the bearded sniper character and he appeared to be some kind of mentor, in a way, to her. She also appeared to have feelings for the wanna-be soldier boy, Roland. She wasn't so bad with the gun, with Roland and Mordecai offering her tips every so often, but her lack of experience didn't appear to be a problem. If it came down to it, though, the Spartan would and could kill her. And he'd kill her first.

Roland wasn't a soldier. He was a mercenary trained to look like a soldier. The Spartan had seen the work of mercenaries and the work of soldiers in the past and he knew the difference. But that didn't mean Roland was any less lethal. He had good aim, a good eye and this digistruct turret thing. He appeared to have assumed the role of the leader, as well. Which made sense, considering he looked like the most professional of them. He definitely was trying to hide that he had something for the siren woman, too. He'd die third. It'd have to be a headshot, too, with the body armor and the possibility that he could toss out that turret before he breathed his last, otherwise.

Mordecai, he recognized, was military-trained. There was a certain efficiency to his killing that he just couldn't kick, no matter how lazy or drunk he was. His stance was exact, his aim was perfect. He didn't shoot like some back-world hick who'd grown up shooting the local fauna for sport. The Spartan's hunch's confirmation came when Mordecai reached up to pet that bizarre avian creature's head and his sleeve pulled up _just_ enough. He had a UNSC tattoo. Specifically one denoting him a member of a Navy Spec-Ops unit. One the Spartan had worked with after Mordecai had left it. _So_, the Spartan thought, _you're a Navy Spec-Ops sniper, then_. It made sense. Mordecai had a fantastic eye one only got naturally, but tuned through long hours of practice... not in the range, but on the field. _He_ was a dangerous one. The Spartan would kill him second, before he could get to cover. And then he'd have to kill the bird.

The group worked with awkward cohesion. They were starting to get to know each other, so it was a little sticky, but they were getting it as time ticked along. A well-oiled machine is harder to kill than a scared group of strangers. He knew. He'd been part of one, once or twice. The Spartan didn't plan on killing them, but if he had to, he hoped the job would come sooner, rather than later. Either way, he knew the job would come.

(V)

2557  
>"<em>I'll arrange for transport back to UNSC space. I've got contacts in ONI, I can get you pardoned for being MIA these last few years—<em>"

"Mr. Hanson, lemme stop you there," the Spartan had all but abandoned the silence of his previous life, by now. He was crass, venomous and loud or smooth-talking and seductive or cold and harsh when he wanted to be. That said, he could still be silent as Death. This was one of the Cold and Harsh times. "What in the _fuck_ makes you think I want to go back to the UNSC? Mm? Pandora is exactly the kind of planet I want to be on. I can kill, I can fuck and I don't have to care. There's no regulations, no orders I _have_ to follow... No bullshit bureaucracy. The UNSC and ONI can't do jack or shit to me here and I like that. So, let's try this again. What are you willing to give me in order to make me work for you?"

"_What do you want...?"_

"You to leave me the fuck alone," the Spartan said and closed the ECHO line. He reclined on the bed, tossing his ECHO onto the nightstand. He had a small 'Spartan' apartment in T-Bone Junction. T-Bone Junction felt comfortable, like he'd built his home there. After the Vault Hunters had swept through and murdered a significant number of the Lancemen, most of the Lancemen had gone AWOL, become bandits and killers. A few had tried to hold on to the old ways. Marcus had paid the Spartan handsomely to have those Lancemen removed. And removed they had been. Mostly. Their bodies had been tossed to the desert below to be eaten by skags and rakk. Some of them had still been alive when they went over the side, too. Nisha had helped him with that job, just for the extra coin, sex and killing.

"Was that that Handsome Jack guy?" Nisha asked, strolling into the bedroom. She was pretty much nude, except for one of his shirts, unbuttoned, draped around her shoulders. The Spartan shrugged. "What? You don't want to get paid to kill a bunch of space idiots and hunt a vault?"

"Not my kind of job," the Spartan said. "I could care less about money and vaults and goddamn Hyperion. It's the very fact that he claims he has contacts in ONI that turned me off of it. I'd've gone to help you out, otherwise."

"That Athena chick is going, too, I heard," Nisha said, discarding the shirt to the floor and crawling back into bed with him. He shrugged again.

"You're a better shot than her... and you've got a nicer ass."

"You say the sweetest things..." Nisha snorted. He smirked and slid an arm around her waist.

"You can always ECHO me and ask for help."

"Transport to Elpis is pretty much locked down."

"Public transport is. I could just steal a ship and fly there myself. I _was_ one of the top pilots in the UNSC."

"And why would you come to my rescue? I though this was just sex and nothing more?"

"Believe it or not, Nisha, but you're the closest thing I have to a friend. I'd rather you didn't die, too."

"And here I was thinking you'd say something about wanting to save my glorious ass from getting shot up."

"That too."

(V)  
>2558<br>It wasn't the first time he'd just met up with her for a quick screw and run, but this time felt different.

Like she didn't want him to go. Or like she wanted to go with him. But the price of being in a relationship with Handsome Jack was that there was a metaphoric leash involved, keeping her there and letting him run free. He was, after all, on Jack's shit list. So if the crazy bastard found out, he'd probably try to kill them both. Which would more than likely end in Nisha and Jack being dead and the Spartan being without a friend in the universe.

Again.

"Michael..." she whispered. He paused, buttoning up his shirt, and looked over his shoulder at her. Nisha put her arms around him, kissing his cheek. "Goes without saying, but be careful."

"Always am. Goes with the paranoid thing," he said. Nisha propped her chin on his shoulder, holding onto him lightly.

"Once you told me I was your only friend. I'll be honest with you, at that point and still now, even, you were and are my only friend, too."

"Good to know," he said. He was still good at hiding his emotions. Her returning the sentiment lifted a weight of loneliness of his heart. The Spartan plied her off him with one hand and turned, dropping to a knee on the floor. He looked up at her. "If Jack's making you uncomfortable, I can kill him."

"What'll happen if you do? I mean, Pandora's fucked up even worse. And he has guys that honestly follow him out of devotion, not fear. What'll happen?"

"Those guys, I can kill, too. And Pandora was fine without Jack, before. She'll be fine without him again," the Spartan said. "Unless... you still love him?"

"I think so."

"So, I'd break your heart if I killed him," the Spartan said. Nisha's expression answered well enough. He ducked his head down. "Would you ever forgive me?"

"I don't know."

"Then you're stuck with him," the Spartan said, colder than he meant to, when he lifted his head. He leaned up, kissing her forehead and left her weight of loneliness was back, settled on his chest, and he couldn't help but feel like his welcome on Pandora was worn out.

(v)

_Okay, this is creepy_.

He watched the two of them sleep, Nisha curled in on herself, back to Jack. He had one arm loosely draped across her waist. The Spartan had watched them interact, turned away when they fucked and snuck into her room once they'd fallen asleep.

He screwed a silencer onto the barrel of his Thanatos and leveled it at Jack's head. A millisecond of pressure on that trigger and his skull would resemble a pomegranate someone had hit with a sledge hammer. A millisecond of pressure and Pandora would be free, the Spartan would have his peace of mind and his only friend still breathing would have both, freedom and peace of mind. Eventually.

She'd hate him for a while, but they'd get past it. She'd fight him and he'd let her. She'd probably shoot him in some non-essential-to-life-or-sex area, like his knee or shoulder. Then she'd fuck him while he was still bleeding and make him bleed some more, with her nails or knife. She'd bite him, claw him, punch him, swear at him, but fall crying into his arms when the frustration and loss finally got past her anger. But after that, he'd need to keep her safe until all the Jack supporters were buried in shallow graves with lead in their skulls. If something happened to Nisha, he'd loose it. He'd lost too many friends and was too infected by the primal laws of Pandora to let it go like he had so many times before. She wasn't a fellow weapon. She wasn't a soldier ready to die at his command. She was his _friend_. And he'd be damned if he let anything happen to her. But he couldn't guarantee that he'd be good enough to kill them all before one of them got to her. And he wasn't sure how many, exactly, there were.

The Spartan unscrewed the silencer and holstered his pistol. He didn't bother moving as Jack grunted in his sleep and rolled over, putting his back to Nisha. The Spartan moved around the bed, crouching by Nisha. She was a cold, bitter, sadistic bitch to just about everyone. He was the only one that ever got to see the happy, cute girl inside that frigid shell. She'd emerged once or twice in the days before Jack. The few times they'd spent one to three days at a time doing nothing but watching old ECHO-cast cartoons, killing bandits and wildlife, screwing around and screwing all day. She'd come out when she'd take his motorcycle for a joy ride and make him come along, riding in the bitch seat with his arms around her to keep them both from flying off the bike every time she took a sharp turn.

In a lot of ways, that made her just like him. She could've been Kat. Or Lucy. Or any one of his sisters, in those ways. But she'd been made cold, bitter and heartless through much rougher, crueler and darker events than anything he'd been through. He wasn't abused, he was trained. She was trained _through_ abuse. Finding someone like her helped her get past it. A little, but not enough.

Nisha's eyes flicked open and he almost drew back, surprised. She smiled fondly at him and motioned for him to move. The Spartan edged back. She sat up carefully and slipped out of bed. She put a finger to his lips and gestured for him to follow. The Spartan prowled after her. She brought him down to her armory and motioned for him to sit on the wooden bench. She sat beside him and put her head against his chest. The Spartan put an arm around her shoulders, holding her close. The room was cold and she was shivering in her sheer night dress. Until he put his arm around her. She stopped shivering.

"You're shivering," he murmured.

"I'm always cold, nowadays," Nisha told him. "Except when I'm around you."

"Heightened metabolism makes me run hot," he told her.

"You're telling me."

"Careful now, that almost sounded like flirting."

Nisha snorted a laugh. Next thing the Spartan knew, she was undoing his belt and moving to straddle him. After they screwed, she stayed sitting on his lap, arms around his neck and face buried against his shoulder. He kept his arms around her waist, head bowed against her shoulder.

"I ever tell you you're my best friend?" she asked.

"Once or twice."

"Well, you are. My whole life, I never had any friends until we bumped into each other."

"It looked like you'd tracked me down from where I was standing."

"We were both after Kobb. You just found him first and I decided to chat with you rather than shoot you. Shooting you seemed like a bad idea at the time."

"With just your revolver, it would've been. My skull's ceramic-plated augmented bone."

"I'm glad I didn't try anyway."

"So am I. Did I ever tell you you're my best friend, too?"

"Once or twice..."

(v)

The Spartan trailed his prey silently from a fair enough distance. He'd rigged together a half-assed active-camo generator that ran on four shields. Nisha had asked him to trail them. He knew why she'd asked, but he couldn't do anything to protect them if Jack wanted them dead. Which he did, considering the Spartans had been drawn into an alliance with the Raiders. Poor bastards. Even if they were II's, which it looked like they were, they didn't stand a chance, what with being without their Mjolnir, or back up. If Jack went in against the—_Fuck._

They'd made it out of the complex. Mordecai's bird, Bloodwing, swooped low over their heads and the taller one reached up. The bird soared away, silent. She went right over the Spartan's head. He considered loading a mag into his S&S and giving the Loaders and Yellowcoats a hard time, but remembered his recon training. Observation. Here, he had no targets of opportunity. Anything in Hyperion Yellow was off-limits.

The two Spartans went down fighting. One of them did, anyway. He must've ordered the other one to run, making the shorter of the two higher ranking. Jack locked the other one down with a neural manipulator and turned him into a meat puppet.

The Spartan sighed and lifted his sniper, snapping the bipod up, against the barrel. He pushed up and stalked off, back to his motorcycle.

_If only they'd stuck together... Dying with a friend is much better than dying alone._

(V)

2559  
>Seeing two UNSC ships on the radar he'd rigged up in his T-Bone Junction apartment gave him mixed feelings.<p>

Feeling One: Anger. Because the fucking UNSC was invading his fucking territory. Pandora was not theirs to take. Having Jack all over it was wearing his patience thin enough.

Feeling Two: Fear. He was terrified about the idea of being forced to go back to the UNSC. He wanted his freedom. He fought every day to stay alive on Pandora and he liked that. Because it was the price of freedom. He didn't have that option in a tin can with UNSC branded on his ass.

Feeling Three: Excitement. With the prospect of fighting UNSC soldiers, he'd have something to look forward to. Marines were easy, but they had better aim than most bandits. ODST's were a little harder, but they still had better aim. And then Athena had mentioned something about a new batch of Spartans...

So when Jack brought the bigger one down, a spike of joy filled his chest.

(v)

The two men glared at each other from across the room. One stood, the other sat at his desk. Jack, the seated one, crossed his arms over his chest. "So... Jorge Carter, the famous Bandit Slaying Ex-Spartan badass... You and Nisha go back, don't you?"

"A few years. Why?"

"Just curious. How'd you meet?"

"We were both after the same bandit. Rather than kill her and take a bullet or two doing it, I offered to split the bounty with her, since she'd gone out of her way to find the place and was willing to take on a Spartan for the money. Again, why?"

"Are you fucking her?"

"Not at the moment," the Spartan sneered at Jack's enraged expression. "Before you two got together, we fucked around a few times. It surprises the shit out of me that she thinks you're enough man for her, really. It's my understanding that when people 'downsize' it's usually to their benefit."

That pissed Jack off even more. The Spartan didn't flinch when he stood up, the chair clattering to the floor behind him. He jabbed a finger in the Spartan's direction. "I'll fucking kill you."

"You'll die trying," the Spartan said, coolly. "I'm built to kill fucks like you."

(V)

"What now?"

The Spartan glanced sidelong at Nisha.

"Now, I go back to my life. Care to join me?" he asked. She feigned contemplating it.

"Running and hiding from the UNSC and the Raiders?" she asked, eyebrow cocked. The Spartan smirked.

"What I've been doing for a long time, honey. Not much has changed. In a few years, Pandora will've shaken off all the bullshit of the last few years. Raiders, UNSC... this shit won't last."

"You sound sure of that," Athena scoffed.

"I am," the Spartan said. "First thing's first, though."

"What is that?" Athena asked.

"I'm getting this UNSC tattoo removed, and a nicer eye-patch."

"Then what?" Nisha asked.

"Then..." the Spartan thought for a second. "Then I'll do something really Pandoran."

"Like what?" Athena asked. Michael rested one hand on his Unforgiven and smirked.

"Anything that'll get them to give me a better name."

* * *

><p>So... Noble Six's adventures on Pandora. I'll probably do an Axton one next. I dunno. Maybe an Athena one. We'll see. Hey, anyone want to do fanart or something? That'd be pretty nifty. Sorry, did I just say Nifty? I blame the Blues Brothers for that. Just watched it for the... upteenth time the other night. Anywho, someone do some fan art! That'd be super great! First person to do fanart gets a high-five and a turbo mansion! Lemme know where to find it in a review or something.<p>

Until next time, kiddos!


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